Winter's Grasp
by karebear
Summary: "You wanted me to find you?" she asks, incredulously. Anders shrugs. It's never about what they want. GiftFic for Suilven.


Breathe deeply in the silence, no sudden moves  
This isn't everything you are  
- Snow Patrol

Moonlight filters through the eerie emptiness of the bare trees that stretch their dark fingers to the sky. The wind whispers through those empty limbs, and a heavy blanket of snow muffles the sounds of the forest. Wolves howl in the distance, and owls hoot, their voices can be heard cutting through the clear night. But footsteps, even in armored boots, are softened.

Rylock shivers slightly as she walks, and she ducks her head and hunches her shoulders to form a meager shield against the cold. She flexes her fingers, curling them into a fist and then uncurling them again a moment later. The stiff leather of her gloves makes a crackling noise; it too is quickly absorbed by the overwhelming quiet. She gnaws on her lower lip and keeps alert, stretching out into the subdued night, searching for some hint of human presence nearby. Anders' phylactery is hot against her skin, she can feel the magic resonating within it, like the vibrations of a bowstring pulled taut, about to be loosed. He is close, she can taste his magic in the air, the sharp lyrium tang mixes with the scent of snow and pine trees.

She listens to the heavy beating of her heart, matches her breathing to each careful footstep, and her lips form a silent snatch of prayer; the closest thing to hope she'll allow herself, right now. She prays that she finds him; soon, safe, that she gets to him first. There are other templars searching, though she's the one with his phylactery and probably the only one who really cares. The others will stay close to the road and spend much of their time in the taverns where a roof will keep them sheltered from the weather and the ale flows freely. At least until they can't get away with that any longer, then they will resume the hunt, irritable and looking for any excuse to take it out on their quarry. They have orders to bring him in alive, unharmed. They don't hurt him until he gets back to the tower. But this isn't their first go-round, and she and Anders both know that there are plenty of ways for the more petty and cruel templars to skirt the edge of that line without risking Greagoir's displeasure.

Rylock quashes those worries and keeps walking. She licks her lips and tromps through the snow, following the siren call of Anders' blood. His phylactery rests just above her heart, carefully strung onto the cord around her neck and tucked under her breastplate.

She finds him as the moonlight grows brighter, unobscured once she steps out from under the cover of the trees. He is waiting for her: sitting in plain view on a rock at the edge of a fast-moving stream that cuts through the small clearing. Ice crystalizes in patches at its bank, reflecting back the bright glow of the stars sprinkled through the sky above them.

She studies him from the edge of the treeline, concentrating on keeping her body silent and still so she doesn't give herself away. Yet she doesn't lie to herself; of course he knows she's there. He's _waiting _for her. He twirls a small stick around, flipping it through the fingers of his right hand, yet his body is tense as a coiled spring, ready for the fight that is coming. Rylock can feel the mana buzzing in him, but he doesn't draw upon it, so she doesn't drain it.

"You _wanted _me to find you?" she asks, incredulously. Anders shrugs, listless despite the threat she poses. He stops twirling the stick. He barely glances up even when she walks right up to him. Rylock listens to the babbling churn of the water rushing by below their feet. She sits down on a log half-buried in snow, uncaring. She's been walking for what feels like years, she's already soaked and freezing. Anders is just as bad. The clothing he's wearing doesn't come from the tower; he's got a worn cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It's probably stolen. It isn't enough to keep him warm. His hair hangs limply, damp from melted snow.

They don't speak. They sit just far enough away from each other to not-touch. Rylock digs into her belt pouch, producing a handful of jerky and some dried fruit. She hands it to him without a word. He accepts it, and she can tell by how his eyes light up and how quickly he moves to grab it that he hasn't eaten in far too long. But he simply lets the food rest in his hand; he doesn't raise it to his mouth.

"Dammit, Anders, eat it," Rylock snaps. "It's not _poison._"

Anders narrows his eyes and stares at her without blinking, with that frightening intensity like he's staring right through her. She can feel the crackling power of his mana as he studies her, trying to figure out her intentions. Then he blinks, and sighs, and begins to chew on the tough, spicy meat.

"Won't they be looking for you?" he asks harshly, when he's finished off the rations and washed it down with a drink from his own canteen. Rylock shakes her head. It's true enough. They are not _so _far from the tower, close enough to reinforcements that there was never any need to send many templars out searching. Walking off-road, through heavy snow, in weather this dangerously cold... Anders wasn't moving very fast. She can't figure why he even _tried_, what he possibly thought he could gain.

Anders raises an eyebrow. She holds his gaze. Their breathing slows in tandem, a chill runs down her spine that is much colder than the icy wind. She is under orders not to hurt him, but they both know he has no similar limitations. She's just admitted she's alone. He could kill her, take his phylactery, and run again. It would be the smart thing to do. He won't do it.

"I might," Anders growls. He has moved closer to her, and she's reacted, letting her hand fall to the grip of the sword waiting at her hip. They are still not touching, yet she swears she can feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath. She shivers, and shifts closer to him, seeking that warmth and that contact. Anders' fingers lock around her wrist and he pulls her tight against his chest, wrapping her into an embrace she can't escape from. She doesn't _want _to. She doesn't try. They sit there, the two of them together on this snow-covered log, watched only by the forest. Anders brushes his fingers through the tangled locks of her hair and presses his lips down over hers. She squirms against his demanding touch. A flame kindles in her belly and stirs a desperate need that sends a flood of warmth through her body and a tingling itch between her legs. She struggles to breathe as his tongue plunges into her mouth.

She jerks away from him with a groan that shakes her whole body, panting for air with shallow gasps. "Fuck you, Anders!" she spits.

He laughs, a bark that echoes loudly through the silent night that surrounds them. The thick snow quickly swallows the sound. "I'm _trying_, templar," he snarls. This is not humorous teasing, it is angry and cutting. He stalks close to her with a cruel smirk dancing on his lips. She doesn't break away from him. She is _not _afraid of him.

He pushes her down into the snow and straddles her, pressing her down with the full weight of his body. Even when she is wearing armor, he is still stronger. The fingers of his left hand rest gently against her throat; his right hand pushes against her chest, holding her down. Rylock doesn't breathe. She doesn't close her eyes. She doesn't attempt to break the hold he has on her; if anything, her body screams at her to let him do it. She _wants _it, she won't resist. She grabs his neck and pulls his head down to meet hers, his lips press against hers and she won't let him pull away. She can taste him. She reaches out, feeling for the strands of his magic; it _lights up _around him, responding to her touch. Anders gasps and bites his lip, his fingers press down harder against her throat, hard enough to bruise.

Rylock strains and struggles against that pressure, she chokes and gags and claws and scratches at him. Without thinking, she lashes out with a smite, a violent tearing of the Veil that rips that collected potential out of his grasp. She sucks it into herself, and then releases the energy. It dissipates quickly, leaving her shivering in the cold, still gasping for air.

It's worse for Anders, of course. Her attack wasn't physical, but the explosion of that much energy, the _absence _left behind, was enough to send him staggering anyway. He's ended up a few feet away, on his knees, he is spitting the little food she'd given him into the grass. When he looks up, his eyes are dull and unfocused. He is shaking, with cold and fear, and he isn't touching the Fade - he _can't _- but she swears she can feel the swirls of emotional energy bleeding from him anyway. He wipes his sleeve across his mouth, and draws in breath with ragged gasps. He looks up, with pure hatred in his eyes, the only defiance he will summon, now. Rylock knows that he fears this kind of attack more than any beating. She'd known it when she'd done it. She has just hurt him more than any physical punishment ever could, and left no marks. It is _exactly _the kind of justifiable twisting of the "unharmed" order that she'd sworn she'd protect him _from. _She ignores the tears that sting her eyes and burn hot against her flushed cheeks. Instead, she grabs Anders roughly and locks the heavy manacles around his wrists, more tightly than she probably should. The metal bites into his flesh, cold as ice.


End file.
